Initiated

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I wish I could recall the fine details of when I received my mantra. What do I recall? Enter that time frame Carol....

***
[1975/1977]

The Transcendental Meditation Center was in a small, white, wood-frame house with a covered wooden front porch. I liked the front porch; it had a grey slat wooden floor. I liked the TM Center and hung out there often.

When a person entered the house, they entered what would be a den or living room in most houses.  In the TM Center this room was a greeting room. There were chairs and a table with some literature.  To the right was a door that entered another room; that was the initiation room.  When a person turned left in the initiation room, she would see the 'altar.'  That's what I would call it.  That's where I received my mantra as I sat in an upholstered chair.  The carpet was green.

Mantras were sacred. At least I felt mine was.  I never told anyone my mantra sound; it was mine.  I thought it was uniquely for me.  It seemed to change over time. The inflection of it, the accent.

Back on the front porch again. When one entered the home and walked straight through the living room, they then entered the kitchen.  It had a linoleum floor. The ceramic white sink was on the left. That's where I washed the fruit that new initiates brought.

When assisting with initiations, I had to be really careful with a new person's fruit and handkerchief. If I dropped them, they were no longer pure.  I don't recall handling the flowers, but maybe I did. I do recall that we had flowers on hand, just in case the flowers an initiate brought were not healthy enough.  It seems we had extra fruit too. Yes, in a fruit bowl on a kitchen table.

My TM teacher's name was Dee.  I think she was from New York and drove an off-white 70's Dodge Dart or something like that.  I liked her. She was petite, short hair, probably in her mid-twenties.  I was 16 when she initiated me and gave me my mantra.

The TM Center was near my high school just beyond some tall trees at the far end of the south-side parking lot.  At least I think it is south.  From the TM Center, I could see the school through the trees.

On the walls at high school, I displayed Maharishi posters advertising introductory TM lectures.  But I never got anyone to the lectures, that I recall.  At least no one that stuck around. I was the only person at the high school that was into TM. I wish I could remember if my boyfriend, Ron, ever came to a lecture.  Surely he did?  But he never received a mantra; he never got initiated. He continued with drugs; I had quit drugs.

Dee lived alone at the TM Center.  She was the only teacher.  There were a handful of us that were loyal Center volunteers.  I think Steve and I were the most loyal. Like Dee, Steve was in his twenties.Seems there was a lady named Donna. We shared some pot luck meals together.

I think I paid $75.00 for my mantra and later $100 to take the Science of Creative Intelligence Course (SCI). I was the only student as I watched Maharishi on the T.V. giggle with his flower.  He always had that flower.

As I took The Way International's Power for Abundant Living Class (PFAL), over two years after taking SCI, my spiritual eyes were enlightened. SCI is a counterfeit of PFAL. The devil, the Adversary, is a parasite. He takes the truth and counterfeits it as a lure to keep people away from the real Truth. Jesus said, "No one cometh to the Father, but by me....I and my Father are one...Let them be one as we are one." The only way to be One with God is through Jesus Christ, through the "rightly-divided" knowledge of who He really is, of what He really accomplished. I'm now a steward of the 'musterion,' the "Mystery." I am of the initiated, "of them that are 'teleioo.'" Wow...

Yes, SCI had to be a lure, a counterfeit in the spiritual battle. After all, both SCI and PFAL cost $100 and were about the same length. Both classes were taught by God's representatives. Maharishi was a guru, but he was deceived. Dr. Wierwille was the true man of God. 

Doctor was "The Teacher."

I sat at his feet drinking in every word.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Physician Carousel

The following is the introduction to "Mental Illness ~ Counselor #2."
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In my mind I see a dining tabletop lazy-susan, the kind that holds the spice shakers and the honey and even napkins. One can sit at the table and spin the carousel to choose the spice that meets the need.

Yet on my carousel image are miniature replicas of various health practitioners; over thirty-five of them - surgeons, medical doctors, specialists, homeopaths, counselors, chiropractors, naturopaths, and more.

In 1981, after four years in The Way, I developed chronic and severe asthma, not to mention other immune dysfunction problems.

Way indoctrination, my double-edged sword.

One side of the sword suppressed my self - emotions, thoughts, desires. All was to come under submission to the Word and obedience to my spiritual elders. They looked out for me, my protectors. They weren't perfect; yet, according to the doctrine, God promised to bless my life for obedience. I had to remain true to my calling; I was to put off my old self and become the new. That's where "truth" was found and it was the "truth" that would set me free. Free to serve God and His people.

The other side of the blade? III John 2: "Beloved I wish above all things that thou mayest prosper and be in health, even as thy soul prospereth." God's will was always health. If I died wheezing I would continue to strive for health. I would continue to confess my wholeness. This side of the double-edged sword aided me to not give up, to keep seeking out solutions.

Yet, it also caused me to continue "faithful in the Household" where the authentic truth was taught which was the only way one's soul could prosper. This side of the sword caused me much condemnation and self-loathing, but there were other scriptures to counteract the condemnation. Yet I fell short there too.

All was in a nice, neat answer package. What was wrong with me that I couldn't unwrap the package? But I had to try, I had to keep at it and build my believing.

Perhaps that sword had more than two edges.

I felt like the woman with the issue of blood who spent all her money on physicians and was the none better. Yet I was some better, but far from well. And it wasn't my money; it was mostly my husband's money.

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Mental Illness - Counselor #1

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The following was originally posted on a different blog as part of a series. The series remains incomplete.
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Suicidal thoughts and ideations were almost a constant companion beginning in the early to mid-nineties and through mid-2004.

I stood in a hotel conference room at a Way function in 1994, somewhere in North Carolina. Since the Way owned no churches, local believers held larger meetings in rented conference rooms. Sometimes in restaurants; sometimes in community buildings or banks; mostly in hotels. The Ministry would foot the bill with donations from followers. Often local followers who were attending a certain meeting, chipped in with extra cash. Even if my husband, John, or I couldn't go, we would still donate money to help pay for a room. Renting rooms was still cheaper than the purchase and upkeep of a building.

The teaching had ended and folks were milling about, enjoying refreshments and visiting. My Branch leader, Mike, approached me. We chatted. My illnesses came up in the conversation; I had been chronically sick with severe asthma and immune dysfunction since 1981. "It'd be great if you could somehow go to Mayo Clinic or somewhere like that to see if they could find something to help."

I nodded in response, not disagreeing; yet feeling tense on the inside. I didn't like conversations about my health. I was doing all I knew to do, plus more. Mayo seemed like just another dead end to me.

Mike mentioned that maybe seeing Dottie Moynihan on a professional level might help me deal with the continuous battle I fought, the emotional and physical upheavals. Dottie had her Masters in psychology. I'd heard that at one time she had practiced professionally in Ohio. Dottie and her husband, Bob, were the Way State Coordinators; during part of that tenure they also served as the Atlantic Region Coordinators, overseeing a few states.

I had learned to not go to Way leadership for counsel regarding my health; there were strings of obedience attached. At least in my heart and training, if I went to leadership for counsel, even a suggestion was equivalent to "thus saith the Lord." I hadn't gone to Mike this time; he had approached me. Therefore, in my thinking, I wasn't obligated to obey. Yet, I'd consider his suggestion about Dottie. After all, Mike was ordained clergy, Way Corps, and (at the time) mine and John's direct overseer. Perhaps God was at work within him.

Sometime thereafter, I made the call to Dottie. Yes, she'd be glad to see me. There would be no charge. My understanding for the no charge aspect was that she was working full time for The Way; plus John and I volunteered as Fellowship Coordinators. There may have also been other legal reasons for her not charging.

I couldn't trust a secular counselor or psychologist. They might try some weird stuff and I'd run the risk of getting possessed or something, setting me back even further. I was already pushing the envelope because I was seeing an acupuncturist on a regular basis, an acupuncturist who was also a lesbian. In The Way, lesbian behavior was considered devil spirit possession; acupuncture was questionable. I rationalized my visits by telling myself that I'd keep on my spiritual toes. I would try most anything to curb the asthma; I had to breathe. I had to breathe. If the acupuncture didn't help after six months, I'd quit, which was my standard time limit when trying new wellness approaches.

Dottie's home was a couple hours from mine. I didn't mind the drive; I was used to driving a couple hours to various health practitioners anyway.

Bob and Dottie's home was warm. Dottie liked birds and had quite a few bird feeders on their deck which was outside the glass kitchen door. It was a peaceful view. The yard was beautifully manicured. The house wasn't huge or extravagant; it had a spark of elegance with comfort. Of course it was very neat and in order; Bob and Dottie had no children at home. Plus, they probably had volunteer Limb staff to help clean the home.  In The Way, a state in the USA was referred to as a "Limb."

On the kidtchen table was a bowl of dry cereal and an unpeeled banana. It awaited Bob, his morning meal. Above the wide doorway that led into the den was a high book shelf. It seems a set of Britannica's 'Great Books' decorated the shelf. My mother had sold Britannica for almost two decades. I was no stranger to their books.

We went to Dottie's office. It too was warm and welcoming, though I can't recall the details.

I loved Dottie and Bob. They always made me feel at home in my skin, always edified me.

"I have two major fears about coming to you," I said to Dottie. "I need to let you know those before I can proceed to talk more."

She agreed and helped me feel at ease.

"One. I'm afraid to come to you because you are also my spiritual leadership. I'm afraid that if you suggest something that I don't think will help or that I don't want to try, that I'll be disobeying God by not following any suggestions you give."

Her response helped alleviate my fear. "I am seeing you as a counselor. If I suggests anything, that's all it is...a suggestion. It is not necessarily revelation or inspiration. If it is, I'll let you know."

She was sincere and I believed her.

I proceeded, "Two. I'm afraid you'll tell me to quit homeschooling my children. I don't want to quit homeschooling. Even with my health issues, we are making it work."

The Way didn't look fondly upon parents without a professional teaching degree homeschooling their children. I had only a high school diploma. In regard to child-rearing and education, I had taken a "better late than early" approach. I leaned more toward eclectic and unschooling. John and I had also practiced 'the family bed' with our kids, something else that wouldn't have been looked upon favorably by The Way.

Dottie responded again with acceptance. "I don't plan to tell you to quit homeschooling. I think it's great you are doing it. And your children seem to be doing well."

I asked if she was familiar with Dr. Raymond and Dorothy Moore and their child development research. She had read some of their works. I breathed a sigh of releif; she would at least have an understanding of my approach.

Over the following six to eight months or so Dottie and I entered my life and history. Dottie never put any kind of Ministry pressure on me. She directed me toward some relaxation techniques and a few books, since I read a lot. She was a huge help to me.

When I was close to a suicide attempt in 1995, it was Dottie I called. She handled it the way it should be and got help to me right away.

She never did say she received revelation or inspiration about my treatment, not even the time she suggested I consider breaking ties with one of my friends who had aligned with Chris Geer's group. It was simply a suggestion. Eventually, I did take Dottie up on that one and broke the relationship. I don't recall if I ever told Dottie or not.

Bob and Dottie were reassigned to Florida in 1995 or 1996. I didn't see Dottie again until around 2001 or 2002, in Dallas, Texas, at an Advanced Class Grad Weekend.  We had a warm, short visit.  It was good to see her.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Hear my muse...

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I haven't had many readers at the new blog site. And that's o.k. It will be there, if folks are interested.

I wrote the other day when writing out some goals. (Yes!! I'm writing goals again.  That's a good thing.  It's been...hmmm...four years.)

I wrote the other day: "Hear my Muse.  She is always with me.  Write for her and no one else."

I've thought of adding some back story to the new blog, some mental illness snippets. Not the struggles. But rather the practitioners.

There is no way I can capture the barrages in words. One has to have experienced such, I think, to grasp the horror.

The past few days as I've thought through what to write next, the avalanche comes tumbling. So much back story; too much to relate. Plus I'm not that good of a writer.

I'm thinking to touch upon Dottie and Dr. McColloch and Janet.  Todd would have to be in there too.

I sit at a different Panera today. The one on Miller Street. The gas logs are burning a toasty fire. I drink green tea; soft jazz comes through the speakers.
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Protecting the Gulity~Part 2

non-subject:  "protecting the guilty"

aww:  11/18/09

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Within about four months Naomi ended up dumping Nick, never telling him the whole truth; the whole truth being that, after their second face-to-face rendezvous, she didn't have the feelings for him that she thought were real.  She told Nick that she wanted to end the relationship because she wanted to try to work things out with her husband; after all, John and Carol had worked things out.

Nick was devastated. He felt jilted. At the time he expressed to me angrily over the phone, "How could I be some dumb!?!"

Naomi's reconciliation attempt with her husband lasted a month or so. During that time Drew, a GreaseSpot Cafe member, had started exchanging online dialog with Naomi. Naomi lived  in Oklahoma and Drew in Idaho. Naomi told Drew she couldn't get involved with him; she was married and was trying to patch things up with her marriage.  Drew pursued anyway; he was single.  He listened empathetically as Naomi began to open up and trust him. He wooed her and she again found herself in another affair, head over heels.

It's human.  People are lonely.  People have needs. People look to get those needs met.

After three or four months, Drew dropped Naomi.  Still their exchanges continued back and forth for awhile. It was hard on Naomi; she'd been smitten and was now heart broken. She felt jilted and lied to. Her marriage was continuing its descent into dissolution.

Sometime after Drew ended things with Naomi, he apparently decided to pursue Vida who was also a member at GreaseSpot Cafe.  Vida was married at the time. Naomi had caught wind of this pursuit and decided to warn Vida via a personal message, which is similar to an email, through GreaseSpot Cafe. The message didn't name the man, Drew; the man whom Naomi was warning Vida about. Naomi simply warned her to be careful of "a guy in Idaho." Somehow Vida figured out, or perhaps Naomi told her, that Naomi had had some sort of relationship with "a guy in Idaho."  Of course Vida knew that "a guy in Idaho" was referring to Drew, who was then in pursuit of Vida.

Vida had gotten to know Nick through the GSC forum. Since she didn't live far from Nick, they decided to get together for a meal; a platonic, not romantic, supper. At that meal Nick learned from Vida about Naomi's liaison with "a guy in Idaho."

And now Nick was on the  phone with me, irate and demanding to know if Naomi had dropped him for another man other than her husband.  Naomi had told him she was going to try to mend things with her husband, that that was the reason she left Nick. That was partially true, but not the real reason.

I listened to Nick vent; I couldn't blame him.  Naomi had never come clean with him letting him know that her feelings simply weren't there for him. She had withheld that truth; she was afraid of hurting him.  I didn't feel it my place to tell that to Nick.

I then answered Nick's question with a half truth, "Naomi did have a short relationship with a guy, but it never went anywhere." I told Nick it wasn't my place to answer details; that was between he and Naomi. However, Nick and Naomi were not on talking terms.

Due to Naomi still working through so much duress with her marriage and emotional pain from the break-up with Drew, I waited to tell her that Nick knew that she had had some sort of relationship with another man after she had dropped Nick. After I felt she was doing better emotionally, I called and told her about what Vida had told Nick, about Nick questioning me and my answer to him.

Naomi was irritated with me and she was angry with Nick. She asked me why I had told Nick.  I explained again that I hadn't, that Vida had.  I asked her, "What'd you want me to do, lie?"  Naomi responded, "Yes." I was stunned.  Naomi followed her affirmative answer with, "I can't tell you things because you can't lie."

I was speechless. I didn't know how to respond to Naomi's statement. I felt guilty for not lying, realizing later that I had lied; I had told Nick a half-truth.

Should I lie for friends? Is that what friends do for each other?  Should I lie out of loyalty?  I found myself perplexed. It reminded me of when I was in The Way and I'd be afraid to examine doubts closely or to ask questions; leader's hearts were right, weren't they? Shouldn't I cover for their humanness, their errors, their hollering at followers?  Wasn't that part of tough love?

It reminded me of The Safety Net, another online forum. Membership was by invitation only; it was a secret club initially established for ex-Way women who had been abused, a supposedly safe place to converse online. Members of The Safety Net were to tell no one of its existence.  I had failed, broken my word and told someone the forum existed though I never revealed the name or contents of the forum. I probably should have covered with a lie, never revealing the forum existed.

And now, I had failed again; I hadn't covered for Naomi. I wasn't sure of what was right or wrong, what was allowable, how one should cover for others.  In The Way we were taught about the lockbox; we were taught that the love of God covers a multitude of sins. I felt stupid, unwise. I felt confused.  Besides, I knew I could lie and had lied on various occasions.

Naomi's statement, "I can't tell you things because you can't lie," was loud as it replayed over and over in my mind. It silenced me and again stirred self-doubt with which I so often battled.  Yet I couldn't imagine ever asking a friend to compromise their integrity to cover for me, to lie for me.  That seemed too heavy a burden for friendship.

Naomi never did come clean with Nick.

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Click here for Part 2:  Protecting the Guilty ~ Part 1

Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Next Entry

I started to write my next entry tonight for ~as the forum turns~.

How do I explain the emptiness my last year in The Way?  

As I was endeavoring to compose tonight I thought it is probably time to pull out my journals from that time in life, pull out 'thought' records, see if somehow I can catch a glimpse of the hollowness.  It was like a hollowness that only echoed loss; there seemed to be no hope, no where to safely turn. No options.

Some may laugh at that and say, "Hell, ya'll had lots of options when you left.  By the time ya'll left there were more people out of The Way than in.  You had plenty of places to turn." 

Objectively, that is so. We left in 2005 and 2006. All splinter groups were formed by then.  GreaseSpot was alive and hopping.  WayDale had come and gone, archived at GreaseSpot.

But the prison is not one of an objective reality.  It is within the mind, within the perception of the true believer. The only two options a faithful disciple can conceive are spiritual life within "the Household" or spiritual death outside "the Household." 

And then there are the children. John and I wanted our children to "have the Word."  Where else could they get that "pure Word of God" but within "the Household?" Where else could they have "true fellowship?"

I hope I can catch some of the essence this weekend....to write that next entry.

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Don't Touch

non-subject ~ "in groups"

(aww 02/10/10)

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I stood in the breezeway area, the wide side walk covered with a metal roof that was attached to the tall steel polls. The side walk that led from the Gymnasium to the school building, the school building where classes were held except for Chorus and Band; they were taught in the large rooms that attached to the Gymnasium.

I don't recall exactly what prompted my thoughts nor with whom I was standing as I observed the cliques of teenagers, of which I was part.  Why do we gather in these different groups?

I was in 8th grade.  I think it was spring; I wasn't wearing a coat. I may have been in my cheerleader outfit.  I usually felt sexy and pretty in my short skirt, bobbie socks, and saddle oxfords.  I had a nice physique, fit and shapely, but not busty.  My lure for the males were my legs.  Guys were always complimenting my legs, or "wheels." Mom said I got my legs from her; she was right.

One guy told me I had a "T-bellybutton," like Raquel Welch. He told me that in the summer when he saw me in my bikini at the public pool. But standing there in the breezeway, I wasn't in my bikini and I wasn't thinking about belly buttons.  But I was thinking about innies and outies, though I wouldn't have called it that at the time. "Innies" referring to who was popular, the "in-crowd." "Outies" referring to those who weren't popular. There were some that fit in neither group; I don't know what they would be called.

I was an "innie.:

That's one reason I was a cheerleader; the students voted on who made the squad.  It was part, if not mainly, a popularity contest. To get voted on, one had to have the smile, the body, the right rhythm, the voice, the face, and be able to do the kangaroo jump.  I was never in a beauty contest; I thought they were silly.  But how was cheerleading that much different, really?  I made the squad three years in a row, 7th and 8th and 9th grades, all at College Park Junior High School.  There were no boys on the squad, only girls.

I tried to not fall prey to the innie/outie thinking and behaviour.  Yet I know I did at times, feeling superior to someone less popular or less smart or less physically fit. Growing up, I felt compassion for the runts of a litter, the little ugly pup that no one wanted. Runts were like outies; so was the devil. When I was a little girl I never understood why the devil be couldn't be saved too. Couldn't love heal all?

The "freaks," as we called them, were standing outside that day down beside the gym, near the area that led to the outdoor concrete bleachers on the hill on the opposite side of the gym. The "freaks" with their long hair, afros, and hippie clothes. Their group intrigued me. I wondered if they noticed me, if the freaks noticed me as I stood in the breezeway area.  I noticed them and felt a pull to maybe someday discover their world.

But not now, not yet.  I was dating Tim and later would date Dale.

Dale who was 3 or 4 years older than I.  Dale who drove a gold Cutlass Supreme where I would give him blow jobs and we'd fuck in the backseat, me at 14 and 15 and Dale at 18 and 19. Dale whose family lived in a ritzy section of town.  Dale who, short of stature, made up for his height in how well he played basketball; he could jump like a cricket. He always dressed nice and wore just the right cologne. His smile was sweet, with an almost shy countenance. He was a gentleman in public.

Dale who would get drunk and then hit me with his fist or an open hand, usually just one punch in the abdomen or slap on the face. He usually hit me because he got jealous or he thought I was drinking or maybe smoking dope. He wanted me to stay away from dope and alcohol, and I did.  He only hit me if he had too much to drink. He always apologized later.

In eleven months of dating, there were nine hitting sessions.  The final one in someone's bathroom in a home in a nice section of town. It seems it was by Lake Hickory; perhaps it was in Lakeland Park.  A steep blacktop driveway led to the basement where folks were partying, the basement where that bathroom was, where Dale with a liquor bottle in hand somehow cornered me in the bathroom, with the door closed.

I was fifteen when I changed ranks to the "freaks."

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Hush Little Children

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

~*~*

There were things, as believers, we weren't supposed to discuss.  Yet even I was foggy on what was allowed and what wasn't, and I'd been around over a quarter century.

John and I received a phone call sometime between 2003, after John and I had officially resigned as Household Fellowship Coordinators, and 2005.  A daughter of a Way Corps couple in the state had been severely burned and had been sent to the burn unit at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem, where we lived.  Since John and I knew the family from previous years of serving with them in western North Carolina, we were told about the situation, that Kiri had been severely burned, and asked if we could go visit at the hospital.  Other believers were not told any details.  I think they were only told that Kiri was in the hospital and that the believers would be rotating making meals for the family because the family would be visiting from the far end of the state.

My heart hurt.  What was so wrong about stating when someone was in such dire straights and deep pain?  Why were we as believers so hush about things like this? Like when someone is sick or has a need.  Is it supposed to be a sign of strength that we don't express deep needs? Or is it all considered simply a personal matter and not to be discussed?  Like when Doctor was sick before he died; why weren't the believers told?  Is that considered the loving thing to do?

I silently spoke in tongues as John and I drove to the hospital.  We turned by the large brick marque and column that are located on either side of Medical Center Boulevard, the road that borders one side of the hospital property.  We turned into the parking deck and parked the car.  As I closed my door I could hear the echo that parking decks carry. Car engines, doors closing, voices.  I walked into the hospital with John, still silently speaking in tongues. We found our way through the giant hospital maze and up the elevator to the floor of the burn unit.

There were Rod and Jody.  We hugged.  They began to share.

The damage to their 12-year old daughter was severe. Her lower body from her thighs down. She'd be in the hospital for months undergoing skin graphs.  Even though Rod and Jody seemed to still be in a state of shock, they were keeping it together.  God was watching over Kiri; all was going to be o.k.

As the discussion continued I asked how it happened.  They shared the details.  Kiri was at a friend's house and the parent ran out for a moment to the store.  Kiri and her friend were outside, where the grill was.  The store-run was apparently to get something for the meal that was going to be prepared on the outdoor grill.  Somehow the grill turned over. Kiri was standing beside it. Lighter fluid found her pants, then the fiery coals. Her pants ignited in flames. It was a bizarre accident.

"Drop and roll!!"  She and her friend had been trained at school by the Fire Department. Her friend had the alacrity of mine to pull off Kiri's pants.  Without that, the burns may have been worse.  Without that, Kiri may not have made it.

Rod and Jody seemed to feel some relief just to talk about what had happened.  I'm sure they had talked about it to others, at least to the leadership.

We all knew it was the Adversary and his work.

A week or so later at Fellowship, Debra asked me privately if I knew what was wrong, why was Kiri in the hospital.  Like John and I, Debra and her husband knew Rod and Jody from previously living in the same area where Rod and Jody served as Way Area Leaders, in the western part of the state.  So I told Debra; no one had told me not to.  

She was stunned,  "Why aren't we having a prayer vigil around the state for Kiri and the family? Remember when we used to have those, where the believers would pray for each other? Why don't we do that anymore?"
I didn't have an answer but thought it was a good idea.

Debra called our Branch Leaders in Winston and asked them about the believers doing a prayer vigil.

They asked her, "How do you know what happened?"

She responded, "I asked Carol and she told me."

"Oh.  Well it is really no one's business what happened to Kiri.  The Ministry doesn't do prayer vigils anymore.  It's enough that people pray for Kiri; they don't need to know any details."

Debra was not happy with their answer.

My phone rang. It was our Branch Leader's number on the caller identification. I had become hesitant to answer the phone when their name or number showed up. I would prepare myself for correction or for some volunteer duty recruiting.

I felt tense.  I told myself it was o.k. to answer the phone and to not read into the phone call.  It might be just a phone call.

I picked up the receiver, "Hello; this is Carol."

It was the wife-side of the Branch team. I was wrong to tell Debra what happened.  It was no one's business what had happened to Kiri.  Had Rod and Jody given me permission to share?  I answered that they hadn't said either way.  I figured it was o.k. to tell Debra.  It was a private conversation between Debra and I.  Debra used to be in Rod and Jody's fellowship; she was concerned.

I felt frustrated. Why do we hush stuff up?  Is it because the Ministry would look bad?  Was it because that then people would doubt and doubt leads to worry and fear, opening up doors for the Adversary to wreak more havoc? I stifled my feelings and inner questions.

During the conversation, the unspoken truth of the law of believing pervaded my logic. Some believers can't handle this type of information and their negative believing might impede Kiri's healing. To speak negatives out loud is to give place to the Adversary and glorify his evil works.  Everyone has to keep their confessions positive. And the leadership is right; people don't need to know details of a situation to pray. God knows the details.

But if people were like me, they'd be wondering what exactly we were praying for at times.

At a later appointment with my psychologist I discussed the incident.  He assured me that I had done nothing wrong.  It wasn't like Kiri was raped; he could understand the need for confidentiality in a circumstance such as that.  But she was burned. It was a horrible accident.  He had difficulty understanding the over-response of silencing from the leadership, the same leadership standards he had advised me to step away from.

In the same time frame of Kiri's incident I learned that the deceased Way Founder's wife, Mrs. Wierwille, was ill.  I read about it on GreaseSpot. I dare not mention it, for I hadn't heard it announced in Fellowship nor had I heard anyone pray for her.

Another pain and suffering to be swept under the carpet, to go unacknowledged?  Was that right?  I guess it was the loving thing to do, to not discuss these matters, to not mention any negatives;  it was not the Household's business, even though we were supposed to be a family. Even though, in previous years, followers personal lives had been scrutinized by leadership having to let our leadership know where we were going and to never take a trip of length alone, where we were staying, who we would be with, our personal financial status, to consistently report back regarding personal matters, to plan our days so as to schedule the Adversary out of our lives.

We were treated as children, and we complied.

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entry - grief

I've been here before...in this grief and loss.  For years it was everyday...certain years in The Way and then the subsequent two to three years afterward.  I don't cry over the loss every day anymore, or even every month.

I've come a long way in the past year or so.

But today I'm weepy.  Maybe it's hormones.  Maybe it was hearing some of the stories on a phone call today, hearing those voices for the first time. Voices can be different than reading texts.

Maybe it's the book I recently started reading, The Cult that Snapped: A Journey Into The Way International.  Not anything I don't know. Yet reading it is like looking in a mirror, naked. Maybe I shouldn't read it.  It's been on my list for a few years. Maybe I should walk away and pretend "stuff" never happened.

But I know I can't do that; I can't pretend.

It's o.k. to grieve.  I have to allow the grief.  

Maybe part of the grief is Mom; that just dawned on me. Death's anniversaries.  She died on January 31, 2009.  Dad died in mid-February, 1996.

Maybe that is part of it too.

"Aquila & Priscilla"

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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As I shared with John some of what I read online about The Way, his interest peaked and he would read a small bit now and then. I told him about the three lawsuits; The Way had told us followers there had been only one lawsuit. I read on GreaseSpot that one of the other lawsuits had been filed by our old ex-Way friend Ron. Ron had called us, back in 2001, when he and his second wife decided to leave the Way. That phone call came while we were living at the Westbrook Plaza House, before I'd ever searched The Way online, before I'd discovered GreaseSpot Cafe.

June, 2005. The phone rang. But it wasn't the kitchen phone in the old house on Westbrook Plaza. We now lived on Commonwealth, in the mortgaged house.

I answered, "Hello. This is Carol." A response came through the earpiece,"Hi Carol. This is Harve Platig. How are you?"

Harve Platig? He was one of the vice-presidents of The Way. What was he doing calling our house? Neither John nor I personally knew Harve. What was this about?

Harve and I exchanged cordialities and then he asked to speak to John.

I walked from the kitchen up the stairs to the bedroom. Puzzled and almost whispering I informed John, "John, Harve Platig is on the phone for you."

John's eyes widened. He looked as bewildered as I.

John wasn't on the phone with Harve for very long. I'm guessing maybe ten minutes or so.

"What was that about?" I asked after he hung up the phone.

"It was about Ron and the lawsuit he filed against The Way. David told Harve that we used to know Ron. Harve and the lawyers are looking for insight into Ron's personality, wondering how easily Ron can be manipulated against his will."

John and I just looked at each other, puzzled.

John shrugged, "Harve thought we knew about the suit. A lawyer for The Way is going to call me later in the week."

We were both baffled. Neither John nor I had ever been informed by The Way about the Peeler suit. The only reason we knew about the suit was because we had read about it on GreaseSpot. John didn't reveal that to Harve, that the only reason he knew about the Peeler suit was because of GreaseSpot.

Why did Harve think we knew? Perhaps David, who was on The Way Trustee Cabinet and the one who had given our name to Harve, got his memory wires crossed again?

When David and his wife oversaw the state of North Carolina, he'd sometimes get mixed up and think that John and I were Way Corps grads and at some of the state Corps meetings would ask, "Where are the Welches?" He would then be reminded that the Welches weren't Corps. I saw how he could get that confused in his mental wires. John and I had been Fellowship Coordinators or Assistants for a long time and volunteered at almost every state function. Another factor was that, though I never graduated, I had been in-residence in The Way Corps with David and his wife back in the early 80s. I still carry the image of them getting back from LEAD, backpacks on, walking down the second-floor hall in Uncle Harry Dorm at The Way College in Emporia, Kansas.

I loved David and his wife and family. They were good people, down-to-earth with heart. David was so funny, and at the same time could drive the truth of the Word home to a person's soul. David used to fondly and somewhat comically refer to John and I as "Aquila and Priscilla," a take-off of the biblical husband and wife lay leaders in the book of Acts in the Bible. David had ministered to my heart on many an occasion. He loved God and the Word more than anything, something I endeavored to strive for in my own life but fell short so very often.

After David and his family got new Corps assignments and moved out of state sometime around 2000, Joe and Paula became the state coordinators. Our family and their family had gotten to know each other when we lived in Greensboro in the late 90s, our homes only a mile from one another. Our kids were the same ages and played together often. Paula and I were walking buddies at the time. I loved Paula and her family. She and Joe were tender with people's hearts. Paula helped me ease up on some of my strict scheduling. Loyal Way followers and lay leaders had been taught to "schedule the adversary out of our lives;" I had diligently obeyed.

Paula and I were staying together in a hotel room at a Way function sometime after 2002. She shared with me the difficulty of putting together the live teaching series of The Way's Way of Abundance and Power Foundational Class, the heart-wrenching that had gone through her soul listening to Craig on the tapes, thinking of those times in The Ministry, how Craig had fallen, how people's lives were so hurt. Apparently the Corps had to listen to those tapes in order to get their live teachings on the field accurate; The Way hadn't yet changed any of the doctrine from Rev. Martindale's Foundational Class even though Craig was on asylum somewhere. Apparently, The Way wanted to get Craig out of the picture. At the time, standing in that plush hotel room, I asked Paula where Craig was and if he and Donna were divorced or not. Her response was, "I don't know."

Her sharing about her emotional stress brought up the subject of Craig's lawsuit. I then mentioned the Peeler suit. She became silent and looked at me. Her tone of voice changed, much more matter of fact, "How do you know about that?" I answered with a half-truth, "Word gets around."

I felt dirty for lying, like a hypocrite; but I didn't know how else to handle her question. I was uneasy with her inquiry.  Why was that?  Why did I feel I couldn't I fully trust the leadership?  Should I tell her I was reading stuff online?  I remember when David, as the previous state coordinator, had hollered explicitly about "those sites on the web," to stay away from them, and how lying spirits had voice there. I'd also read on GreaseSpot about "The WayGB,"  Way leaders that lurked on GreaseSpot like spies.  Paula's husband spent a lot of time online. I wondered if he was part of The WayGB?

I brushed it all aside. It was better to just keep my mouth shut.

Initially, when I read on GreaseSpot about the various lawsuits, the one we as believers had been informed about which was the Allen suit, and then the two others that we hadn't been informed about - the Peeler suit and the Parker suit - I figured that we as followers hadn't been informed about the other two because it wasn't the loving thing to do. It wasn't any of our business as followers, these other lawsuits.

What was the profit in bringing them up and causing strife? Hadn't there been enough strife already? Didn't the Word state that "the love of God covers a multitude of sins?" It was a Ministry matter, really none of our business as followers. Us followers weren't told because it wasn't best for the Ministry or for our hearts; it wasn't best that believers have more doubt in their minds after all the stuff that had happened with Craig. Besides, leadership would tell us about it once it was all settled; they'd tell us if telling us was the loving and right thing to do. There was no reason to give place to the devil. The devil was always out to steal, kill, and destroy. Hadn't he done enough havoc already?

But as time went on, I'd question in my heart. Was it right to keep this information from us as loyal followers who financially, emotionally, and with our life's energies supported the Ministry? But I dare not ask. I was afraid to ask. Perhaps I was afraid of the truth.

When I first read about the Peeler suit, I thought Ron was just money hungry and that the suit wouldn't stand a chance in court; no one had physically forced him to give money to The Way. Sometime later when I read the court records online, I could hear the voices in my head. I knew or had had interactions with almost every Way or ex-Way person on that stand in the court room. I could see their facial expressions and hear their inflections and accents.

Later that week, The Way's lawyer called John and that was the end of John's input in the Peeler case. John had no new information to add to what the lawyers had already collected about Ron's profile.

We never mentioned to anyone, not even to Way leadership, about the phone calls. We put the phone calls in our "lock boxes."

My lock box was starting to bulge.

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entry - shifts & shatters

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I've been feeling uneasy today. Perhaps a bit yesterday too.

In what way? Uneasy is a nebulous term. What is a better word?

Like life is happening too fast and I have no control over it?

That's part of it. Another part is, well, that insanity feeling. How does one convey that feeling?

Ahh, like one cannot trust their own mind. It's not a factual trust, but rather a perception trust maybe?

Where did this originate the past couple days? What triggered it?

I think a trigger may have been the memoir piece about when I gave up drugs and the feelings that I had then, in those moments back in 1975.

Those feelings are so similar to various flashbacks I've had since leaving The Way in latter 2005. The feelings are also similar to episodes I'd have beginning in the early 2000's. Perhaps because at that time, I began to distrust my experiences in The Way. I had been trained to distrust my self, my own inner voice, perhaps to the point that when I was shifting to learn to try to trust my own inner voice...well, the shattering, the unraveling effect can be quite traumatic.

Perhaps I am not communicating at all. Perhaps this is just a bunch of mashed potato thought mush. Perhaps I think too much. Perhaps I still care too much about what others think of me.

Perhaps I'm uncomfortable with people asking me my opinions on matters. I feel very little qualification on matters of other's lives to offer suggestions/advice and even my opinions at times. Perhaps I get a cornered feeling when that happens.

But why? Why do I feel cornered when someone ask my opinion? Funny how I seldom ask other's opinions on personal matters of my life.

Perhaps it's time for a radical acceptance statement:
"My life is my life. My past is my past. My experiences are my experiences. On those I am an authority."

Oh yes, and to quote my friend Dawson (again):
"Wait....I need time to over think this."

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Alone in a House of Mirrors ~ II

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Click here for Part One.
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I rocked back and forth, holding my head. I had to keep calm.

I looked around the room.

Remember the black lady that used to clean the house? Remember that time when my money disappeared, the money I had hidden in that antique-white piece of furniture, a chest of drawers with a fold-down compartment on top where I used to hide treasures? I wonder if she took my money.

Rocking back and forth. My head in my hands. Talking to myself.

"Carol, your aren't insane. If you were crazy, you wouldn't know it."

Yes. That's it. Crazy people don't know they are crazy; they can't tell reality from fantasy.

What was real? Real to me right now?

My bed was real. The window. The roof outside the window.

The stillness in the house; I was home alone.

The daytime; it was daytime.

I wasn't crazy, not yet.

I walked out of the tiny bedroom and made my way down the narrow stairway of the old house. I took a left at the bottom of the stairs and entered the dining room. I knew it was the dining room. It was real.

I took another left and made my way through the kitchen. The brown ceramic sink to the right was real. The old portable dishwasher to the left was real. We had to roll it across the kitchen floor to the sink and hook it up to the faucet to make it work. When it was switched on, it was noisy. It was real. The small kitchen was real.

I walked into the den, the family room, the room that we called the "back porch." It had once been a screened-in porch where Mom had raised parakeets. The family room that was covered by the roof that was the roof between my bedroom window and the giant oak tree that the imaginary malefactors would climb. It was real.

I looked around the family room and found the local newspaper, "The Hickory Daily Record."

I could do this. I could look through the paper. I could read.

I turned to the "Classifieds." Maybe I could find some help there, maybe a phone number of a help line.

At the bottom of a page, framed in a black and white rectangle, I saw an advertisement. Transcendental Meditation.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction
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Alone in a House of Mirrors ~ I

non-subject ~ "a new person"
(aww: 2/03/10)
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I sat in the small bedroom at the top of the stairs in my parent's home. The small bedroom, my bedroom, that I'd moved into sometime during my younger elementary school years. I sat on the bed. The same bed, that when I was little, I used to line with stuffed animals to protect me when I laid down in case a murderer crawled through the window and shot a bullet into my body. My animals surrounding me would protect me.

The window, through which I used to wonder if dead people spied on me.

The window, that if one crawled out they would find themsleves on the flat roof. The roof of gray-white tiles that covered the den that had been added to the house when I was a wee bit of a girl, probably when I was around four years old.

Beside the roof was the big oak tree. I think it was oak. That's how any malefactors could get to me. They could climb the tree, hop onto the roof, and quietly slip through my window and shoot me. The malefactors in my imagination were always male, never female.

I sat in that room, on that bed, near the window that went onto the roof that was beside the tree. I sat, no longer a wee bit of a girl, but a young woman now, at 16 years old. I sat, my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Back and forth.

I had to keep it together. I had to keep it together. I had to make myself think. Think.

What was wrong with me that I felt so paranoid? Not a paranoid of someone being after me, but rather paranoid that I was losing my mind.

I was going crazy. It wasn't simply paranoia. It was true.

My mind had become contorted, somehow molded into a disfigured surrealism. It had become...altered. From dropping acid, ingesting MDA, experimenting with whatever drug my dealer boyfriend had on hand.

I only partook of psychedelics and hallucinogens. Occasionally I'd down some speed, like Black Beauties. I only tried Quaaludes a couple times and Gummy THC only once. Gummy T made me feel like a midget and that I was in a midget house; everything was squashed. The ceiling, the recliner, me, my friend Joe - all of it compressed. Quaaludes brought all of life into slow motion, like a tape that would drag in the 8-track player.

I didn't smoke marijuana, at least since after ingesting the jimson seeds ten months previously. The jimson seeds had somehow changed the chemistry of my body so that when I smoked a joint, I'd get deathly paranoid, going into an almost fetal state. So I'd quit.

But MDA. MDA. I had a relationship with MDA. It wasn't just a drug; it was a path, a path to enlightenment. It was the love drug transforming everyone, everything, the entire universe, into a love-in. Even the trees and rocks and ripple of the creek were in bliss. All was one. The love drug that would take its worshippers into a euphoric state of horniness, but never to use one another, only to satisfy the other, the person of one's adoration, only to please.

I liked mescaline too. It was my favorite acid. Window pane was o.k. So was LSD. But if I got a choice, I chose mescaline. Circumstances, no matter what they were, became so damn funny when under the influence of mescaline. Like the time Ron cut his foot as we were walking from Sinclair's farm because I'd gotten my car stuck in the field. For some reason we were barefoot walking along the dirt road that had the broken glass. I took off my bra and wrapped Ron's foot to help curb the bleeding. Bobby came by in his small pick-up truck and gave us a ride to the hospital emergency room in the wee morning hours after midnight.

Now I sat on the bed, withdrawn. I felt similar to the last few times of tripping and taking MDA. Something had been amiss; I'd started getting afraid. Even with Ron there I would get scared; it was like I was scared of my own mind. I started being unable to retrieve words, to articulate. And now, now...I hadn't even dropped any acid but I was feeling the paranoia.

This verge of insanity. The rocking back and forth. Alone. Sitting on that bed in that tiny bedroom. That bedroom where, as a little girl, I used to play with my model horses. They still decorated the antique-white book shelf that sat against the wall across from the foot of the bed.

What was real?

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Click here for Part Two.
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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction
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Resignation

non-subject ~ "anger"
(aww: 01/27/10)
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Summer, 2003. We moved again, our fifth move in less than seven years. Sick of putting our money into rent we went against Ministry directives and took out a mortgage for a home.

It all happened so smoothly, finding the home on Commonwealth just as it had gone off the market. This treasure, an answered prayer, discovering this bright, open, tri-level home with the beautifully landscaped large yard and hundreds of Impatience dancing and painting the front garden. Then meeting the owners, Joyce and Ken, who had lived there for thirty years and had raised four children in that home. Wonderful people. Until the closing date almost a month later, I'd visit with them on the back porch which became my favorite room of the house. Joyce had personally collected every rock that bordered the five landscaped gardens that she had aesthetically placed across the front and back lawns. Joyce and Ken were moving to the North Carolina Outer Banks into a furnished home and offered us some of the furniture they'd be leaving behind; not to mention the garden tiller, the wood chipper, the water hoses, the ladders and more.

We could have bought the place on a handshake.

But how could disobeying a directive of God end up such a blessing? Was it a faulty answer to prayer? I kept waiting for the adversary to exploit us somehow for going into debt, kept waiting for a shoe to drop.

Earlier, in October, 2002, I tried resigning from my volunteer position as a Way Household Fellowship Coordinator. A month earlier, in September, my psychologist, Dr. McColloch, had advised me to quit attending Way leadership meetings, even suggesting that I quit coordinating all together. Every time I'd go to a leadership meeting I'd get set back in therapy, berating myself for not living up to standards. I'd hired Dr. McColloch in latter 2000 at the strong urging of my General Practitioner. At the time I asked my GP, "But what if the psychologist asks me to do something weird or unbiblical?" I was nervous about going to a secular psychotherapist.  My GP assured me that wouldn't be the case. He was right. I had grown to love and respect Dr. McColloch.

I asked Dr. McColloch, "How do I tell Ministry leadership, about me quitting?" I'd served in some sort of lay leadership for decades. He responded, "If they give you any flack, tell them I said you need to quit. Doctor's orders." But I couldn't tell them that. Then Dr. McColloch would look bad and the leadership might think I was talking bad about them to Dr. McColloch and putting the Ministry at blame. But I hadn't done that, had I?

I made the phone call to one of my Way Branch Leaders, also a psychologist, to inform her that I was resigning my volunteer position as Fellowship Coordinator. The Branch leaders were a husband-wife team. Usually a Branch in The Way comprised five to seven fellowships. Our "Branch" had only two fellowships with around fifty believers total. The Branch Leaders ran one of those fellowships; my husband and I ran the other.

On that phone call she and I discussed my 'problem' of how I felt pressure at the leadership meetings. "We don't put pressure on you, do we?" she asked. "No," I responded. "It's something in my head, my problem."

As we talked I opened up a bit as to how I had felt uncomfortable, doubting myself, during a previous phone call with her husband. She asked if I'd discussed that incident with Dr. McColloch. I answered in the affirmative. She then asked if I had explained to Dr. McColloch the context and my issue so that "the Ministry be not blamed." I again felt at fault. I explained to her that I didn't blame the Ministry for my problems and that I had not told Dr. McColloch anything to make leadership look bad. Her husband had done nothing wrong; it was my perception that made me feel pressure.

Somewhere in this discussion tears began to well; I choked them back as I stood at the kitchen sink, phone in hand, looking out the window of the old house. I knew my emotional issues weren't the Ministry's fault; I was the one at fault, but I had to get well. I had to get well.

She said I couldn't resign my position because John and I were a team and John was still a coordinator.

I could no longer hold back the tears. Through the sobs I responded that John said it was o.k. and biblically John was my head; he had given me permission to resign. The sobs turned to anguish and I pleaded with her that I had to get well. She asked, "But is now a good time to make this decison, in October? It's a pattern that your problems worsen in October. October is the Ministry's anniversary date; the adversary always raises his head at this time. And is it really right for you to quit? To not share your abilities with the Body of believers? "

I felt confused. She's right.  I always get fucked up starting around October.

I began to feel anger in my chest. Damnit, what was so wrong with me coming forward, trying to be honest? What was so wrong with me wanting to get well?  What was so wrong with that!!!???

My body tensed. My teeth clinched. My nostrils flared. I can't tell her Dr. McColloch has advised me to step down; that might make him look bad and like I've bad-mouthed the Ministry.

In my over twenty-five years of serving with The Way I had never gotten in a heated discussion with leadership, never raised my voice. How could I make her see!?!

With desperation and anger starting to seethe, my tears stopped. Fury began to sizzle. My head cleared.

I responded in anger, answering her question with a question, my voice firm and the volume above its normal subservient tone,  "Is it WRONG?!?"

Her response was silence.  Maybe I'd just done something right. I felt a tiny sense of empowerment, but soon squeezed it back into its proper place.

My resignation was never publicly acknowledged. I still stood up at larger functions, smiling, when John and I were introduced as Household Fellowship Coordinators. I begrudged it; but I obliged. It was my duty. But I quit helping with coordinating duties, other than hosting fellowships in our home and leading songs and children's fellowships; those didn't put much pressure on me. I attended no more leadership meetings; on that I stood firm.

John had given the Branch leaders notice that he'd like to step down by December, 2002. But no one was around to take our place. December came and went. John continued the position until April, 2003.

We got the mortgage at the end of July.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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"Of All Men Most Miserable"

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I don't debate theology. I just don't.

I used to "Bible duel," but I gave it up awhile back even before exiting The Way. I reckon Bible dueling is technically more like fencing than dueling. Both parties end up going in a circle (like fencing), with both sides using similar or same scriptures to validate their different interpretations.

(I recently read that phrase "Bible duel." Ha! Thanks Larry!)

When I used to Bible duel, it was mainly over the traditional doctrine of the trinity, that being that Jesus was/is God. I believed the scriptures taught Jesus was the Son of God but not God. (I was a fundamentialist non-Trinitarian.) I don't think there was ever once where my fencing opponent convinced me of their interpretation, nor did I convince them of mine.

So the following statement is not a theological debate topic. It's just an observation.

In I Corinthians 15:19 the Bible states: "If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable." The context is speaking of the resurrection and that if the resurrection is not true, all have died in their sins and perish to never see eternal life.

Tonight I thought, "So what?" It simply puts everyone on a level playing field. I'm a sinner, you're a sinner. We all die.

If there is no resurrection, no one will know it. So a person would never really know if they were the most miserable or not.

Something to think about?

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Added note:

But then that verse may be a figure of speech. Also, the passage can be valued for its poetic irony. Perhaps, that's part of what it was saying all along, but my totalistic mindset wouldn't allow another angle of insight?

Or as my friend Dawson says..."Wait, I need to over think this." ;-)
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